Hands
by lizzagna
Summary: One-shot. Arthur is so paranoid someone, anyone will walk through the bathroom door at the wrong time and catch them in the act. But Eames is there with his wandering hands and mumbled words of affection — relax, darling — and somehow Arthur does.


There's a strange, guilty pleasure in what goes on between them. Especially moments like these, when Eames shoves his knee between Arthur's thighs and whispers, "Relax, _darling_," because Arthur is so paranoid someone, anyone will walk through the bathroom door at the wrong time and catch them. But Eames is there with his wandering hands and mumbled words of affection, _relax, darling, _and somehow Arthur does.

Eames irritated him at first, and everything the forger did made Arthur grit his teeth. The accent, the tweed blazers with the paisley print shirts, the slicked back hair with the rough stubble across his chin, everything about Eames was—_is_—exuberant and over the top, strange but not quite insane, neat but not quite perfect. There's always a rough spot, like a loose thread in a swath of silk.

It was always Eames who could get a rise out of him, Eames who could crack that perfectly sculpted shell that Arthur so carefully maintained. Eames could make him laugh like no one else but more often then not frustrated Arthur to no end.

They started out slow but only because Arthur made it that way. If Eames had his way, he would have jumped the point man and taken him right there on his desk. But he settles with a few sloppy kisses in the elevator or massaging the back of Arthur's neck as they look over plans.

The first time Eames invited him to his flat, Arthur declined. He didn't want to know what the invitation meant, even though he had a very good idea. It wasn't that he didn't want to do, um, _that—_because he definitely _did_—but there was something surreal about the very idea of it.

He declined the second and third times as well, and after the fourth time, Eames stopped asking. But the offer was always there, hanging in the silence after Cobb and the others took the elevator down and after Eames said, "Coming, _darling_?"

A simple question with more than one meaning.

Mostly Arthur made excuses—he had extra research to do, he was on a really good lead, anything, anything to get Eames to stop looking at him like that because truthfully it was driving Arthur insane to say no.

Then one day he said yes.

"Coming, darling?" Eames asked almost reluctantly because he already knew the obvious answer was, _no_.

Arthur looked up from the paper he was scribbling notes on and drank Eames in. He took in his hair falling free of the gel, the top two buttons of his shirt undone exposing that bit of skin Arthur always liked, and the way his shoulders sagged a little bit in exhaustion.

"Would you mind waiting a minute?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself.

Eames quirked an eyebrow and pursed his lips to keep the smile at bay. He strode over and sat on the edge of Arthur's desk. "Anything for you," He said in a voice that made Arthur shiver. The smirk on his face told Arthur Eames knew exactly what he did to the point man.

Arthur finished up and they left, Eames slinging an arm around Arthur's neck and blowing in his ear simply to make Arthur grumble. "My place or yours?" He whispered as he pinned Arthur against the inside of the elevator.

Eames had already started sucking on that sensitive spot on his neck so Arthur could barely think of a reply other than, "Hickeys are for teenagers, Mr. Eames," and his voice was a whole octave higher than he wanted it to be.

Eames chuckled against his throat and Arthur had to clench his hands into fists to keep from pulling the forger closer. "My place or yours?" Eames asked again, his breath tickling Arthur's ear.

"Mine," Arthur said, swallowing the thick feeling in his throat. "It's just a few blocks down."

Eames laughed again and shoved him out of the elevator, never breaking the contact between them. That was the thing Arthur had come to accept about Eames. He was always touching, using his hands—kissing, holding, caressing—God, Eames' _hands_. Arthur could never express how much he adored the forger's hands. When Eames wasn't trying to give Arthur hickeys or grope him, he was squeezing his neck or resting a hand on his knee or playing with Arthur's fingers with those hands.

Secretly, Arthur likes the attention. Whenever they're at dinner with the team, Eames sits next to him and plays a game he likes to call 'Drive Arthur Mad' in which he bumps his knee against Arthur's or locks their fingers together or sees how far he can slide his hand up Arthur's thigh before Arthur stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom.

Here they are, several months after the first kiss—which not surprisingly had been initiated by Eames, but it was all the prompting Arthur needed—here they are in the bathroom at the restaurant of Ariadne's choice for her birthday celebration, doing exactly what they've always been doing—sneaking around.

Arthur is sure they all know—Dom, Ariadne, Yusuf—he's afraid they've known all along and he isn't sure he's ready to make this, this _thing_ that they have, real. Real. What is _real_? Arthur thinks as Eames bites a soft spot on his neck. He fumbles nervously for the die he knows is in his pocket.

"Arthur," Eames breathes in his ear. "Stop. This is real." And he slides his hands under Arthur's dress shirt, all the while repeating the words, _this is real, this is real_.

And Arthur believes him.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry it's so choppy. Just a drabble I wrote this afternoon because I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to Arthur and Eames. Reviews are, as always, much appreciated. Hope you liked!


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